


Inhumanely Heartful

by SeverEstHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse warning, Angst, Case Fic, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, child abuse mention, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:56:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3416699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeverEstHolmes/pseuds/SeverEstHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson thought he was used to Sherlock's quirks. He thought he understood why Sherlock chose cases for specific reasons - but then one case would come along which would prove to John that his friend wasn't quite as heartless as he first believed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inhumanely Heartful

**Author's Note:**

> So the idea for this fic initially came about as a sickfic - but then it kind of evolved into a "what makes Sherlock tick" fic. So there is a warning here: there are mentions of abuse and quite graphic descriptions of injury.

Sherlock is invincible – he is the epicentre of logical thinking and emotional detachment. These were the qualities and values that he had idolised as the integral foundation for his, highly specialised, chosen field – and for his work, for the cases, his cultivation of those qualities served him well. To other individuals who encountered him these qualities often left a bad impression, or a lingering discomfort about Sherlock and his methods. Initially John Watson had been one of those individuals who was perturbed by Sherlock's abrupt and often uncurteous interactions, but the more he got to know him John could see the reasoning behind the behaviour. Sherlock got results where other people failed miserably; he did those things that the police dared not, he asked the questions that people cringed at, he blatantly ignored decency rules about questioning witnesses or relatives – it was all about the case, all about finding the solution. His methods certainly worked, he only had a handful of cases that he had not yet resolved. He refused to give up on a case, but he would store it away in his mind and document any hard evidence until he received more data. The few individuals who appreciated the results that Sherlock created – John, Lestrade and Mycroft – put up with the impoliteness for the end results (Mycroft was hardly any better than Sherlock in reality). Over exposure does dull you to the activity, and that was what had happened to John. At least he could still identify a bit of a nuance – sometimes Sherlock seemed superhuman with his extraordinary powers of deduction, yet at other times John could hardly believe how inhumane his friend could be to other people. Equally John knew that Sherlock found things that he did illogical or confusing: each of them was in the opposite box. So they both were guilty, at times, of not giving the other credit where credit was due.

John had been living in Baker Street alongside Sherlock for nearly two years, and he believed that he had most of Sherlock's peculiarities sorted out in his own mind. John had managed to get his name on the local GP supply list, which meant that if the offer of work came up when Sherlock was not on a case, he could escape the brooding atmosphere in the flat to do some work (and it didn't hurt his bank balance either!). Sherlock had been without a case for four days – and for every day that went by without sign of a new case, he became more insufferable. So for the past two days, John had been awake and dressed at 7:30 am, ready to answer any supply request that may come through to his emails.

It was upon one of these days, John had responded to a supply request from a GP surgery only a few tube stops away. The living room had been very still as John emerged which meant Sherlock was either asleep or sulking in his bedroom, these were both preferable to him sulking, or pacing around within the living room. John scribbled a note with the name of the surgery he was going to be at and affixed it to the top of the coffee maker, knowing for sure this would be one place Sherlock would definitely look.

When it was like this John would often find himself wishing for a case – any case – to turn up so that Sherlock would be occupied. But John would find out why wishing for just any case wasn't a good idea, and that Sherlock wasn't quite as invincible as he would have other people believe.

John had been aware of his phone buzzing in his briefcase from around 5pm but he had ignored it. He would be finishing at 5:30pm and then he could check whatever demands Sherlock might be making. When he had finished he had several messages from Sherlock waiting for him – as he scrolled back through them he realised that Sherlock had actually been informing him of a case. John had been on his way back to the tube station, but when he found the message with the postcode of the scene on it, he had to stop and get his bearings (resulting in the person behind him colliding into him). That postcode wasn't too far away from where the doctors surgery that he had been doing supply; he reckoned, however, that he would probably get there quicker by walking rather than taking his chance on the busy, rush time tube.

This neighbourhood was a beautiful one, from both sides of the street white bricked, three storey houses towered above John; they were set back slightly from the pavement. This was how John was able to see DI Lestrade, who was talking animatedly with a small gathering of media reporters – all swarming to see why the police were cordoning off such a well-placed house in a respectable neighbourhood. John's arrival seemed to be Lestrade's perfect excuse to escape from the questioning journalists; he batted them off and escorted John under the police tape and up the steps to the front door.

"Finally," Lestrade had sighed, "Sherlock's been refusing to view the scene until you arrived." Instantly alarm bells were ringing inside John's head, Sherlock never waited on John before viewing a case initially – frequently he used John as his second opinion, fresh eyes that may help to shed light upon something crucial. "He kept going on about needing 'a doctor's eyes'." This perplexed John even more, Sherlock was as equally capable at identifying medical injury and trauma as John, John paused as Lestrade closed the door behind him.

"What kind of case is this?" John asked, keeping his voice low as though Sherlock might somehow be able to hear over the hubbub that the crime scene processors were making.

"Murder." Lestrade answered grimly, "We have the parents in custody already, and –"

"It's a child?!" John cut across him, sounding shocked.

"Yeah," Lestade nodded. "Did Sherlock not tell you that?" John sighed.

"No," He admitted, "All that Sherlock tells me is that we've got a case – no details until I arrive."

"Right… well, the victim is an eighteen month old male; the older brother is currently being looked after by social services until we can speak to him, then he'll be placed in protective care." Lestrade filled John in with the situation.

"Sounds like you've already got your case worked out." John stated, he could feel Lestrade's eyes searching him.

"We're just trying to tread cautiously – statistically we know more children are killed by family members than by strangers, so we have to be proactive." He sounded like he was trying to justify himself.

"But there must be more than meets the eye because you've asked for Sherlock." John smirked slightly.

"I thought he was going to say no when I told him what the case was."

"Where is he then?" John questioned, "I want to get on with being the doctor's eyes so I can get a cuppa."

"Through here." Lestrade led John past several of the crime scene processors, who seemed to be looking for signs of forced entry.

The living room was a high ceilinged room, with large bay windows which let in a surprising amount of light. The walls were a bare white and the distinct lack of clutter, that you would expect when a house contained two children, made it feel rather unwelcoming. The occupants could just be tidy individuals who always cleared up after themselves and their children; in the middle of this barrenness stood Sherlock, staring around intently, trying to extrapolate as much data as he could.

"John!" He spotted him, then quipped. "With the time you were taking I thought you might have actually been in Glasgow, not Glasgow Road." John rolled his eyes, even though Sherlock sounded as sarcastic as normal, there was something not quite sitting right with John about this case.

Not long after John had moved into Baker Street and begun working on cases with Sherlock he had asked what criteria Sherlock used to select cases. At the time Sherlock had responded with only one stipulation: "they mustn't be boring", but in working alongside and documenting Sherlock's chosen cases, he noticed that there were patterns in the cases that he did and did not take on. He rarely took on domestic cases (unless ordered to by Mycroft) as he claimed that they persistently were trivial and didn't require the utilisation of his full faculties. He didn't often take on cases related to children, he never stated why exactly, but John took it that perhaps children were too unreliable to question and count on as accurate witnesses. The other thing he objected to was legal corporations trying to hire him to do their legwork for them – knowing that he would do it quicker and more efficiently than their own staff – meaning it would be cheaper for them. When those kind of offers turned up, Sherlock would point out their inadequacies while refusing to consider them. He was more than a little picky, and only took those sort of cases when he was forced to. Sherlock has a reason for all of his actions, even if they seemed extraneous. Perhaps that was why this case flagged up as peculiar to John in comparison to Sherlock's normal case practices; but he wasn't about to question Sherlock on this while Lestrade was hovering behind John's back, and crime scene processors were in earshot. To be entirely honest even if he had asked Sherlock why he had agreed to this case he knew he wouldn't get a proper reply – maybe the elder brother of the victim was old enough to be trusted when it came to evidence? Maybe – despite Lestrade's statistics – this "domestic" wasn't quite as straightforward as he would hope.

"Right, can we go and see the crime scene now?" Lestrade asked impatiently. "I've got the forensic lot champing at the bit to be allowed to clean and sample the scene, I've been holding them off so they don't disturb anything."

"How very thoughtful." Sherlock mumbled just loud enough for them both to hear; John and Sherlock followed Lestrade up the wide staircase to the second floor.

"It's quite a distressing scene, just to warn you." Lestrade explained as they navigated around some processors in suits who seemed to be checking the hallways for something. "I've already had to send 5 of my CSP's home."

"It's not like we haven't dealt with distressing cases before." John pointed out, "Sherlock's been doing this for years, and I'm a doctor."

"Yes, but - "

"An army doctor." John reinforced when Lestrade went to interrupt him. "I've  _lived_ in distressing scenes!"

"Even still," Lestrade insisted, "I'm just giving you some warning that it's not a pretty sight."

Lestrade had not been kidding on; the room that he led the two of them into was a disaster zone, you could tell by looking at the floor that something atrocious had happened. When you walked in, there were the normal trappings of what might generally have been in an eighteen month olds room – a soft laying mat in the middle of the floor, building blocks scattered around, an abacus set up, and a variety of soft toys. All of these would have been perfectly normal, had there not been the spattering of blood droplets all over everything. What made it even more alarming was the quantity – not a pool that you might expect from an accidental injury or an attack with a knife or other implement, but thousands of pinprick specks, all over the carpet, the furniture and the walls. In the midst of this was the child, suspended from the ceiling by rope affixed messily around the light fixture and tied to the big toe and several fingers of the right hand. These phalanges appeared to have been pulled clean out of their sockets as a result of the gravitational pressure from him hanging there. John couldn't instantly tell whether that had been caused before or after death had occurred because of the amount of bruising that could be seen around the small hand. From the back, the hand looked blackened and broken, and there was the clear sign of other injuries. The blond hair was coated and sticky looking from the patches of clotted blood, some from patches of hair that had been ripped clean out of the scalp, more must have come from the deep puncture marks set out at uneven intervals on the back of the neck.

The room was very quiet, and all eyes appeared to be on Sherlock as he circled round the little boy. There were times when John instinctively knew that Sherlock wanted a boundary space as he observed the scene, but he seemed different today. Normally it was hard to shut him up, he would be rambling – ranting about some obscure detail which no one else had seen but somehow would hold the key to unlocking the whole case. But today he was quiet, today he had waited – this was not the time that he was demanding everyone to shut up. John followed Sherlock around the body, noting that Sherlock was avoiding inspecting the body too closely. Was John witnessing the beginnings of a new trait in Sherlock – caution?

From the back it had been obvious that this attack had been a brutal one, but from the front the inhumanity of it really struck. The puncture marks that John had spotted on the back of the neck continued all the way round the front of the little boy's neck and were dotted about on his bloodied face and torso. They gave the bizarre impression of chicken pox as they were not tiny punctures but probably about 10 millimetres in measurement – and this was the object of Sherlock's first study.

"These puncture wounds" Sherlock began, he had withdrawn his magnifying glass from inside his jacket.

"We've been trying to identify a weapon, it doesn't appear to be a screwdriver-" One of the crime scene processors chipped in over Sherlock, the particular individual was staring at Sherlock – enamoured by his processes. Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated, snapping the eyeglass shut.

"Perhaps if you had looked at them from any closer than where you are standing," Sherlock chided,"You'd see the ink residue. Inside or around nearly every wound there is a trace of blank ink. The wounds aren't clean, like you'd expect from a screwdriver." He threw a scathing look over to the CSP as he mentioned this. "They're blunt – quite ragged in terms of entry. These have been inflicted by a pen – and a lot of force."

"A pen?" Lestrade questioned disbelievingly. "What kind of pen?"

"A black one," Sherlock sneered sarcastically. "And a biro – cheap one by the looks of it; some of the deeper wounds in the chest have quite a bit of splintered plastic in them as the casing has broken apart."

"So the pen is likely to be in a bad condition – even if it's been washed so there's no blood on it?" Lestrade asked.

"It's likely to be splintered into little bits of plastic so it will be unrecognizable as a pen." Sherlock responded.

"We're going to have to go through the bins," Lestrade ordered, "All bins, inside and outside – let's check next doors bins too, just in case." This was some of the CSP's cues to leave – now they had a task to do which would allow them to leave the room with the hanging child.

Among the blood droplets spattered on the floor, were pearl white, tiny milk teeth. The little boy's mouth, open from the gravitational force, was a bloody and raw mess. There were only two teeth left intact in the gum, and several more attached by the merest flap of skin. Each tooth looked as though it had been extracted by someone with none too much skill. The gums were shredded with gaping holes from where the teeth had been twisted in order to get them out; congealed blood had gathered in a pool at the corner of his mouth. Most grown adults who experience dental extraction have a deal of discomfort, even after being administered lidocaine or some other numbing drug – this child must have been in agony as one by one his teeth were pulled away from the bone and nerves that held them.

The last injury, however, was probably the one that had necessitated Lestrade sending home several of his CSP's. Where there should have been eyes – which likely would have been bloodshot and surrounding with bruises like the rest of his little body was – there as nothing. Two empty eye sockets, caked in dried blood. The eyeballs had somehow been completely removed, leaving only the disconnected optic nerve behind. Like the teeth removal, that would have taken some force – and it would have inflicted real pain to this child; and he probably would be too young to understand what had been happening. He would have known pain, and confusion, beyond belief – all before it ended.

"Are you nearly done Sherlock?" Lestrade asked as he watched Sherlock pace silently around the suspended body, first looking up towards the ceiling then subsequently staring at the floor. "My guys really would like to get in and begin the clean up procedures."

"Fine." Sherlock answered shortly, returning his magnifying glass into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, and turned to leave the room. For a moment both John and Lestrade ogled at his back as he so promptly began to march out of the room without another word.

"Wait – Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him, Sherlock spun around at the door. "Don't you have anything to tell us? Any information?" Sherlock frowned as though trying to think of anything else that would be relevant for them to know, besides the pen information.

"Give me four hours, then ask me again." Sherlock responded cryptically.

"Four hours?!" Lestrade shouted, "We haven't got four hours Sherlock! I need to speak to the parents now – I need to know what I should be asking them?" A vein was throbbing in the side of Lestrade's neck with frustration caused by Sherlock's unhelpful comments.

"Ask them how tall their eldest is." Sherlock responded, then continued his descent down the stairs; John knew this was his cue to follow but he felt the need to say something to pacify Lestrade.

"I- " John began, moving away from Lestrade towards the door.

"Don't even bother." Lestrade said through gritted teeth. "Just go, we'll come in four hours." John didn't hang about, with the livid look that was hardening Lestrade's features, he could tell it wouldn't be long until Lestrade let out his anger on whoever was still present in the room.

John had to jog to catch up with Sherlock, who was heading towards the main road out of the estate. The rush hour traffic was only just beginning to die down; the sky was going dark and all the cars, shops and cafes were turning their lights on. The streets of London at night could be beautiful, but it wasn't the beauty that Sherlock was admiring – his face set in a frown as he pounded along the pavement, not even noticing the people having to leap aside to avoid banging into him.

"Four hours Sherlock? What's all that about?" John asked, his arms swinging like pendulums at his side as he marched to keep up with Sherlock's pace. Sherlock had longer legs; he was certainly at an unfair advantage.

"Time to think." Sherlock answered abruptly, John could hear in his tone that this was not something he wanted to discuss right now.

"Where are you going?" John asked, he was tired – he had been awake at 6am and had listened to about fifty patients bleating about their sore heads and runny noses. He wanted to sit down and have a cup of tea, but now this case had come up he couldn't imagine getting his wishes for the next couple of hours at least.

"To buy cigarettes, then back to the flat." Again Sherlock was uncharacteristically short in his reply; normally after getting to see first-hand evidence for a case he would be buzzing with little of information that he had picked up on but no one else had. If John hadn't suspected that something was wrong already, this silence alone would have alerted him to it. John wracked his mind, trying to think of anything to say that might lift Sherlock out of this sulk and into a responsive mood. After all, Sherlock had been complaining that he was bored and needed a case for several days, but now he had one he was in a worse mood!

"Lestrade thinks he's got this case wound up already." John commented, casting his mind back to the conversation they had had before John saw Sherlock. "I bet that's why he asked if you had any information, so when he's grilling the parents he can use anything you found out!" John was aware that Sherlock's pace was speeding up as they passed rows of shops and cafes with less and less customers the further they went from the centre of the town. "Lestrade is pretty convinced, but you know just as well as I do that statistics aren't always reliable." Sherlock had been ignoring John – or so it appeared, but as they passed a row of little shops Sherlock stopped.

"I'm going to buy fags." Sherlock informed John, who stood waiting in the street as Sherlock ducked into the shop. John rubbed his hands together, the night fairly chilly but it had not yet descended into the bitterness that epitomised winter. This area was much quieter than the estate that the scene had been on – the streets here were just as wide, but the houses were right at the edge of the pavement giving a darker, more imposing feel, despite the streetlights casting their yellow glow. Sherlock emerged out onto the street once more, the collar of his jacket turned up as he stuck a cigarette in between his lips and lit it.

"Are we heading back to the flat?" John questioned, watching Sherlock to try and figure out what exactly was going on in his head with this case.

"Yes." Sherlock stuck the hand which wasn't holding his cigarette into his pocket.

"What's going on with this case Sherlock?" John was taking the risk while they were out in the open.

"In what manner you are asking?" Sherlock sounded rather airy, even his voice sounded like it was coming from far away. John sighed out loud, Sherlock could be downright infuriating but today he had ramped up that infuriating attitude; John could feel the blood pounding in his ears with the frustration and annoyance building up inside him.

"This is not the sort of case you usually take on," John was breathing heavily as he tried to keep calm.

"Lestrade came to the flat." Sherlock said huffily. "He told me he needed me for an urgent case, that they needed an expert eye for it – and that the victims were powerful." John knew that Lestrade's use of power was clever. Sherlock didn't give a damn about gaining power of his own from his clients – but clients with power tended to hate being shown up or proved wrong, which was why Sherlock responded to them because he loved being the one to bring them down a couple of notches. "He claims I am owe him a favour – which I know I'm not, but I thought I'd humour him for the time being."

"You don't normally let Lestrade demand that you do anything." John commented.

"I was bored," Sherlock shrugged, but John knew the power trip had been somewhat involved in getting Sherlock out of the flat. At least until he had gotten to the scene, and then he had discovered the true nature of the case that he had been brought to.

"I just don't get it." John continued, "You were doing cases with Lestrade before you ever met me, surely he must know what sort of cases you don't want to attend. That wasn't just a murder scene – that was a torture scene… That little boy had to go through all that before the end… Lestrade is probably right and all, about the whole parent thing. I know you hate statistics, and think that they point away from where we should really be looking, but I suppose they must be right some of the time at least." John was talking continually as they walked along the silent street. "I mean, those injuries – the pen! Someone would have had to use some force to make some force to make those puncture wounds that deep. The removal of the eyeballs too, that couldn't have been done so quickly. Here, why did you ask Lestrade to find out how tall the eldest child is-" The question died in John's throat as he looked to the left as he walked, still expecting to see Sherlock in step with him, only to find that he was walking alone. He spun round in confusion and saw Sherlock – stood stock still – in the middle of the pavement about twenty paces behind where John currently was. At some point while John had been talking Sherlock must have stopped and he hadn't even noticed. "Sherlock?" John called, walking back towards his friend who was standing in a pool of yellow light from the above streetlight. The closer John got, the more peculiar he realised Sherlock looked. "Sherlock?" John repeated; Sherlock looked decidedly flustered – a pink flush high on his well-structured cheekbones. He held his hand up to stop John from coming any closer than about five paces.

"I – um…" He mumbled, he had dropped his cigarette and was wringing his hands tetchily. "Just a moment-"

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asked, Sherlock had closed his eyes and pressed his long fingers across his forehead. Sherlock didn't seem to be capable of replying to John, he shuffled his feet on the pavement for a few seconds.

"I – no." Sherlock suddenly sounded quite frightened; John watched, not knowing what to do, or what was going on with his friend. Very abruptly, Sherlock jerked forwards, retching; he was fighting to compose himself, John could hear his ragged breathing and him muttering: "No, come on…" But whatever was going on inside Sherlock, he couldn't fight it – he had straightened up momentarily, then pitched forwards and vomited onto the pavement.

"Sherlock," John had moved to his friends' side as Sherlock appeared weak kneed, he was coughing – but in between coughs John could decipher the words: "Oh god… I don't want… No…"

"Come on Sherlock." John encouraged soothingly. "You're alright, lean on me – let's get you home."

"Oh god no, I'm sorry." He was mumbling under his breath; John took a grip of his wrist and could feel it trembling.

"There's a bench just along the other side of the street," John told Sherlock calmly, "We're going to go and sit down on that for a little while." He manoeuvred Sherlock towards the edge of the road, he wished he had some water with him but he knew there was none in his bag. He considered leaving Sherlock sitting on the bench and running back to one of the shops to buy water, but Sherlock was a liability. He couldn't trust Sherlock to stay sitting on the bench for long enough for him to get to a shop and back again. John steered Sherlock to the bench, where he sat down rather heavily. John sat next to him and waited for a few moments until Sherlock's breathing had calmed down.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock had opened his eyes, the pink flush still rouged across his cheekbones, but he was trembling. "Do you want me to go and get you some water?"

"No, it's okay." Sherlock replied weakly, he didn't object as John stretched out his hand to feel the temperature of Sherlock's forehead.

"You don't feel like you've got a temperature." John commented, watching Sherlock taking some deep breaths and swallowing rapidly.

"Of course I don't, I'm not ill, I just need a moment to sit." Sherlock snapped, sounding much more like his usual self.

"Alright." John agreed, he leant back on the bench, waiting for Sherlock to recover; he wasn't going to ask any more questions unless Sherlock offered up some information first. They sat for a considerable period without talking – John listened to the rumble of the nearby traffic, and felt his body temperature drop with every minute. Finally Sherlock broke the silence:

"Lestrade is only partly wrong." That was Sherlock's roundabout way of saying that Lestrade had gotten something right, however begrudging he was to admit it.

"What is he right about?" John asked, Sherlock flinched slightly and John knew that he preferred expounding upon what Lestrade had gotten wrong.

"That statistically cases like… like this are most commonly perpetrated by the parents." Sherlock conceded.

"But…?" John pushed for some more information now Sherlock had started talking.

"I've seen horrific." Sherlock said, "I've seen deranged, and insane – but that attack was deliberate," John realised that Sherlock was referring to the little boy – the victim. "That was not a frenzied, out of control, spur of the moment rage which just so happened to be on a child…" Sherlock paused again; he seemed to be utterly revolted by what he was saying. "That was planned, and carried out with a chilling precision. The person who did that had really thought it through." Sherlock was shuddering as he sat on the bench, John wasn't sure whether it was from the cold or from the thought of it all.

"Would the parents not be capable of that?" John inquired, Sherlock sighed as though he was having to explain something very obvious to someone simple.

"It would take a hugely traumatic event to turn both parents into the sort of people who would torture and kill their child – and, in thinking about it, if you are going to such lengths to really torture before ending the life, why kill only one child?"

"Do you mean like why the youngest?" John could see the spark, the energy that was coming alive in Sherlock – even if it was from annoyance rather than passion.

"It's true that the youngest would have a hard time conveying to other people if he was being… if someone was hurting him. But I mean, if you are inflicted with that level of pathology, why would you spare one child? Take that logic further – why leave  _anyone_ alive?"

"To make it more credible? That it was an outside perpetrator." John suggested.

"It very rarely works, especially when you've got detectives like Lestrade who know the statistics of it all."

"Then why do it?" John asked, he was physically shivering from the cold now and fighting to prevent his teeth from chattering.

"Most don't. Most go on a crazed sort of rampage in which the entire family; again that is a different pathology." Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "Shall we head back to the flat?" John nodded, internally he was immensely grateful that Sherlock had been the one to say it; John didn't mention anything about why they were sat on the bench – Sherlock would be embarrassed enough.

"So how is Lestrade wrong about the parents being responsible?" John wanted the conversation to continue as they walked, grateful that the movement was beginning to send some sensation back into his numb toes.

"Because that attack, in no way fits with the way those parents would operate." Sherlock was retreating towards cryptic messages once more as they turned the corner of a more familiar street – they were nearly back at the flat. "Very few killers actually enjoy torture, that's an extra bonus that only a few of them also have."

"So if Lestrade was wrong about the parents being the culprits, how was he right?" John felt as though this conversation was going round in circles.

"They might not have physically killed them, but they weren't looking after those children as well as they should be." Sherlock barked, John stared at Sherlock while simultaneously trying to avoid colliding with anything that might be on the pavement or in his way. Since when had Sherlock cared about children? In fact, since when had he cared about the victim at all? John tried to hide the indignation and surprise that he knew was being expressed on his face; he couldn't claim that Sherlock didn't care about the victims – but he cared about them as puzzles rather than people.

They turned the corner into Baker Street and were met by a flood of people coming out of the tube station – fighting through this crowd John lost sight of Sherlock and for a moment panicked that he might have passed out, until he saw Sherlock's tall frame and curly dark hair at the other side of the pavement. It appeared that he had chosen to wait until the throng had passed; once the crowd had died down and Sherlock re-joined John, John decided that he would take another stab with one of his former questions:

"Why is this case so different?"

"It feels different to you because this is not normally the sort of case that we take on."

"Because it's a boring domestic case?" John prompted. "Because I'll admit that the most domestics are usually boring, but this one is far from it." Sherlock sighed as he slotted the keys into the lock of 221B John didn't seem to want to let this go.

"Not because it's a domestic case, no." He paused as he opened the door; it may have been John's imagination but Sherlock seemed to deflate like he was shrinking into himself. "It's because it's a child abuse case." Sherlock stepped back to allow John to go up the staircase first, but John didn't move, he simply stood in the doorway staring at Sherlock.

"And?" John muttered after a few seconds.

"And I can't-" Sherlock's voice sounded close to breaking; John noticed that Sherlock wasn't looking at him, but staring at the floor instead. "I won't." He barked decisively and marched up the stairs, turning his back firmly on John.

"Sherlock!" John chased up the stairs after him, he was in the living room pulling his scarf from his neck.

"You know how Mycroft makes those snippy comments about him being 'mother' whenever he can, but that was because he  _had_ to be! Because our parents were busy all the time, and they  _never_ noticed what their so-called 'friends' were doing to their kids." John had never witnessed Sherlock like this before – spitting out his words like they were poison, and full of a bitter anger. "We  _had_ to make sure we looked after each other, we both had to grow up quickly so that we could be savvy enough to defend ourselves. Then Mycroft escaped off to school and I had to be able to look after myself." John was staring at Sherlock, utterly dumbfounded at what Sherlock was admitting to him. "And it wasn't that our parents didn't care – because they did – but they just didn't pay enough attention to what was going on, so they were complicit through their ignorance." Sherlock dropped his coat over the back of his armchair, and sat down heavily. "That's why I don't like cases like this because it reminds me, and those…" Sherlock searched for the word he was wanting.

"Feelings?" John suggested.

"Memories." Sherlock corrected, once more removing the possibility of emotion from himself. "Are not useful in the solving of a case, so why re-engage them?" John sat down into his own armchair which was directly across from Sherlock's. "Don't look at me like that." Sherlock ordered fiercely.

"Like what?" John asked, unaware of exactly what his face was doing.

"Like I'm some kind of fragile, broken thing." Sherlock responded, "Don't do that."

"Sorry, I didn't-" John began, but Sherlock broke over him again.

"And don't tell me you're sorry and you didn't know – I know you didn't, I hadn't told you. And I don't want pity." Sherlock was being extra snippy, John could tell he was reasserting his boundaries because he felt vulnerable.

"Okay." John agreed, he really wanted a cup of tea but he didn't want to move and leave Sherlock. "Why did you tell Lestrade to come in four hours?" Sherlock was looking more settled in his chair now, introspective; his eyes were closed and the tips of his fingers resting against one another.

"I knew I would need time to recover," Sherlock murmured. "And I wanted to annoy Lestrade for dragging me to the sort of case that he knows I don't want to be involved with."

"But do you know anything of use to him?" John was fishing more than anything.

"I know who did it." Sherlock stated very calmly.

"You do?" John inquired, surprised at how Sherlock's brain could still be functioning analytically.

"Yes, and you asked the right question of me to unlock it." John cast his mind back to all the questions he had asked of Sherlock on the way back to the flat; there was a silence as John considered.

"You asked how tall the eldest child is." John mused quietly.

"You got there – eventually." Sherlock answered, a small smirk flitting across his face.

"And how does that…" John's sentence trailed away, comprehension dawning in his mind. "No…" He objected.

"Yes." Sherlock refuted shortly.

"No, that can't be right." John shook his head in disbelief.

"As horrific as it may be to believe, this particular elder brother really hasn't had his siblings best interests at heart." John was frowning, it was almost impossible to believe – an older brother, inflicting all those injuries and eventually death on his little brother.

"How?! Why?" John spluttered indignantly.

"Jealousy, hatred, delusional about attention – we won't really know unless he decides to tell us." Sherlock shrugged. "Twelve is a difficult age to be."

"I need a cup of tea." John admitted, revolted by the revelation Sherlock had just opene dup to him; he needed a distraction. "Want some?"

"Coffee." Sherlock replied as John filled and switched on the kettle. Sometimes Sherlock shocked John – especially, like now – in the times that he had a heart, and demonstrated that sometimes he wasn't the heartless one after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading it, I would love to know what you think! :)


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